


Summer Kind Of Sickness

by kycantina



Series: jeankasa month 2019 [7]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Cheating, Drinking, F/M, Falling Out of Love, Hurt No Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Smoking, grittier than normal, impending divorce, married to NPC characters, there's a lot to unpack here but let's just throw away the entire suitcase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:33:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kycantina/pseuds/kycantina
Summary: The engine starts loud enough to send a message, a flare of headlights before she's spilling her guts to the highway.
Relationships: Mikasa Ackerman/Jean Kirstein
Series: jeankasa month 2019 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538953
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Summer Kind Of Sickness

It's her favorite moment, nights like these. Her favorite moment, when the smoke mingles with her perfume, when the liquor on her lips mixes with the taste of him and Mikasa lets herself forget, lets her eyes roll back in her head, ride that high for the rest of the night. Her favorite moments are the ones she doesn't remember, the ones where she's too blissed out to worry about him, to think too long about his hands on her curves. 

Mikasa's always been one to walk on a knife's edge, and with Jean she was no different. Something between mindless sex and friends with benefits, nothing near lovers. Something between the cheap hotel doors they'd hid behind, between slipped off wedding bands and being pinned against tight sheets. They hardly ever talked, about what it all meant, at least. They were able to laugh a little, over gas station snacks and four am movie reruns. Jean mentions his kids one night, a confession ridden with needless guilt. Mikasa ignores his shame, the fact that he's missing his youngest son's first hockey game (a sport Jean pushed him into, nonetheless) to trace the shape of her lips, to press her into the dip of a motel mattress. She makes a joke of it, a mechanism to avoid thinking about it too hard. Tells him he's lucky they hadn't met sooner, she'd never wanted kids, it would've been a messy divorce. 

He tells her, a little brusquely that she's wrong, that he wished the could do 'this thing' as he calls it, 'properly' (whatever the hell that means, Mikasa's never cared too much, her marriage was at the gallows before she'd ever dragged him out of a bar). She doesn't think they'd work out like that anyways, Jean was, had always been bad enough to want something on the side, to stray beyond wedding bands and kept vows. Mikasa doesn't kid herself with it, he's not her first dalliance, for a while she'd thought he'd be her last (for a few months at least, lovesick at the office before she'd realized it was something else, and disposed of it quietly, a doctor's appointment, no sneaking out that night).

Mikasa fixes them as best she can, fingers fluffing up her wilted curls in the dirty mirror, pulling a makeup wipe from her purse (abandoned under the bed, kicked under there when she'd pinned him to it). She'll shower when she gets home, just to wake her husband up, just to make it abundantly clear. She's saved for a while anyways, enough for an apartment in some other city, and enough for her lifestyle, who cares if he's done with her? It isn't like they've been anything more than housemates the past four years. She could easily jump ship, if necessary. Mikasa decides she'll shower here, instead.

She carefully examines the bruises, the marks on her neck and back. There's no point in hiding them, no point in letting him know she was anyone else's. Mikasa steps outside when she thinks Jean is asleep, lights up a cigarette on the motel room's concrete porch (a habit to help her kick the guilt, another reason she'd be a terrible wife and mother). There's a faint buzz, a glow from the town center, but it feels desolate. She trusts the plains before her to keep her secrets, trusts the mountains to buffer the bigger storms. She hears Jean stirring, hears a bedside lamp click on, and is glad she'd gathered up her things before stepping out. They were electric, and she'd never wanted him with the lights on. The engine starts loud enough to send a message, a flare of headlights before she's spilling her guts to the highway.


End file.
